


The Minutes Before...

by duchess_black



Category: The Hour, bbc - Fandom
Genre: 1950s, F/M, First Meetings, The Hour - Freeform, first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duchess_black/pseuds/duchess_black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Bel Rowley and Freddie Lyon before they came to work on The Hour. From their first meeting to their last day at News Reel and how their friendship was never really a conventional one. </p>
<p>Beginning in August 1952 when our heroes are at the tender age of 21/22 we first find them in their first job as journalists for the Home Service before the glamorous world of television enrols their talents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Minutes Before...

**Author's Note:**

> Sigh. I still can't believe they cancelled the best program the BBC has put out in years. I guess they needed to make room for more baking shows. If there's anything the public needs to be more informed on it's definitely cupcakes. Sigh. Anyway I've tried my best to research locations etc properly but it's probably inaccurate. Ah well! Comments are always welcome and much encouraged (you feel like you're typing blindly otherwise).

The Minutes Before...

 

Chapter 1 - The Lyons Den

 

Bel Rowley was late. It was her second day on the job and her first work social engagement where everyone who was anyone to impress at Broadcasting House would be attending and she was late. What was worse was that not only was she running behind (by over an hour to be precise) but she was in no state to impress anyone in. She had snagged one of her stockings in the Oxford Street tube station (it may have been when her leg was assaulted by that briefcase on the stairwell or it may have been when she had caught it in her ragged nail as she was jostled by the train's movement in the crammed carriage) and her run down Langham Place in the August evening had left her sweltering and red faced. No, she certainly was in no fit state to impress. If her mother could see her she would have had a fit and had given her a lecture on how well groomed one must be in front of respectable, eligible men. Then again had her mother been present to give such a lecture Bell would have only retorted that she was there to dazzle them with her intelligence and the capability of her talents as a journalist in the first place and such trivialities over how flushed her cheeks were and what state her stockings were in bore no importance on that. 

On that thought, her running (or what closely resembled running in heels) slowed and she approached her destination with the hope of poising herself. She took a few confident strides before stopping in the shadow of the building that towered above her. There it was, in all it's glory. The second Tower of London with Prospero and Ariel beaming down on her. The sheer size of the building was intimidating yet the way the sun caught the surface of the white stone work made it shine in the summer light in a way that welcomed her like no other place. Yes, it was still intimidating but Bel Rowley had laughed in the face of much more fearful opponents in her short professional life.

The party was located in the executive bar at the top of the building and Bel found herself silently thanking God for the fact that the lift was mercifully empty and that the Art Deco minded designer had so thoughtfully fitted it's rear wall with a mirror. At least she could sort herself out before she threw herself into the lion's den, even when she was intent on using wit as her first defence. 

As soon as the doors closed she inspected her appearance in the mirror and was happy to find that she wasn't as disheveled as she had first thought. Her cheeks were a little rosy, yes, and her lipstick needed refreshing but all in all she wasn't a complete disaster. Her stockings on the other hand... They needed to go. There was no salvaging them from the tear and she wasn't prepared to enter the party with such a glaring chink in her armour. No. She'd just need to get them off before she reached the top floor and prey that the tan she had managed to get on her fair skin from her trip to Florence would be able to fool everyone into believing her legs were indeed still covered.

With this thought in mind she slipped off one shoe and pulled the hem of her skirt up her thigh so to unclasp the shredded material from her garter belt. She had the offending item slipped down to her knee when the lift unexpectedly stopped and with sheer dread the light to the second floor flashed and the door began to drag themselves open. Frozen in complete embarrassment she stared, her hands holding the stocking in place mid way down her leg and her skirt still hiked up, as it revealed a young man poised to make his entry next to her in the elevator. Foolishly she had believed she was the only person who would have been unlucky enough to be running late. Clearly she was not.

She watched as the young man took in the sight that lay before him. She had clearly (and rightly) caught him unawares and his eyes widened in shock as he too stood frozen in place just outside the doors. She must have looked a right picture and on this realisation she let go of her stocking and quickly pulled down her pencil skirt to a more respectable positioning down her leg. Her movement's must have jolted the young man out of his state because soon enough he was making his way into the lift and was looking anywhere but her direction. 

Bel felt mortified. Here she was making her way to a party as a member of a male dominated team of journalists and researchers. To a place where she had sworn to herself that she would not allow herself to be treated as the office skirt and she was practically giving a show to a complete stranger that wouldn't be out of place in the seedier clubs of Soho. Her second day and her first work social gathering and she had already soiled her intended good reputation. 

'I'm sorry,' she apologised to the witness of her impromptu cabaret act, albeit addressing the steel doors in front of her rather than the actual young gentleman, 'I didn't mean to... You weren't meant to see that...'

She heard the man chuckle lightly in response. 

'It's alright,' he answered with humour in his voice, 'I heard these sorts of things tend to happen at these kind of events. Even at the BBC. Even at the Home Service for that matter.'

'What kind of things?' And all embarrassment was replaced by an irritation that this man was insinuating something Bel was completely innocent of. She turned her sharp gaze on the man in question to find him smugly looking back at her.

'Well you know,' he gestured to her skirt with a nod of his head, 'Ways of getting ahead.'

'Ways of getting ahead?' Bel found herself repeating in astonishment that she could ever be accused of such a thing. 

'Although I'm not sure I'm the right person to be throwing yourself at? I only started yesterday and I'm not really in the position to promote anyone.' The man continued, ignoring her tone of protest. She turned once more to look at him, her face set into a picture of indignation and found the man to be smiling back at her in a manner that screamed superiority. 

'I... would absolutely never...' She began to choke on her words but then noticed that the man's green eyes no longer held judgement in them. Instead they seemed to sparkle with mirth and mischief and she knew she had been had.

'Still,' the amused man continued, 'There's still a few more floors to go before the top so maybe you'll get lucky if we stop again.'

'You are horrid,' Bel replied but couldn't stop herself from smirking, sharing in the dark haired man's humour.

'Ah but we're journalists! We're all horrid!' 

'Well you are more horrid than most!' She found herself purring back. Oh goodness! Was she flirting? So much for her wit winning the war. Her mother would be proud. 

'Perhaps,' the man smiled back at her; his eyes still twinkling. Bel mimicked his smile involuntarily. Something about this man was infectious. She just didn't know what yet. 

'The name's Mr Lyon. Frederick if you prefer,' he shot out his hand and Bel found herself staring down at the long, slim fingers being offered to her for a moment before she grasped it, 'But I would much prefer if you called me Freddie.'

'Miss Rowley,' Bel smiled warmly and gave Freddie's hand a firm handshake she had been trying to perfect over the last weeks, 'Or Bel because only my father calls be Isabel and gets away with it.'

'Appalling name!' The lanky man quipped once again with that infectious smile as the lift came to a halt and the pair braced themselves for the doors to open, 'Are you ready for this?' He then asked and it was then that Bel could see that this stranger, this Freddie, was just as nervous as she was for the impending night of career schmoozing and networking. 

'I think so.' Bel said as confidently as she could manage.

'Actually you might want to go somewhere and fix those stockings. Awfully distracting talking to girl who decides to wear them in such an unconventional way.'

She looked down in horror to realise that she had completely forgotten about the dishevelled state of her right leg and quickly grappled to at least pulled the thin material back under the hem of her skirt.

'I'll wait for you outside the lavatory and we can stick together for a while,' her new acquaintance called after her as she made a quick exit from the lift They can't pounce on their prey as easily if we're in a pack.'


End file.
